Three Days by the Sea I Never Wanted to Leave

I still remember the sound of the waves as if it were yesterday. It wasn’t just a sound it was a rhythm, steady and rhythmic, like a colossal heartbeat calling me back to a moment I never wanted to end. Whenever I close my eyes, I can still feel the ghost of the ocean breeze brushing against my skin, carrying the scent of salt, damp earth, and an intoxicating sense of freedom. That memory takes me back to one of the happiest chapters of my life, a three day Eid holiday spent with my family at a Ujung Grnteng beach in Sukabumi.

At that time, I didn’t realize how deeply that trip would anchor itself in my soul. For me, Eid holidays had always followed a predictable, comforting script. They were about the familiar walls of our home, the ritual of visiting relatives, the crisp feeling of new clothes, and the indulgence of traditional dishes like rendang and opor ayam until I felt too full to move. It was a season of warmth and tradition. But that year, the script was rewritten when my sister suggested something entirely unexpected.

“How about we go to the beach this year?”  she said, her eyes gleaming with a hidden plan.

Everyone fell silent, “The beach?” I repeated, the word sounding foreign in the context of our usual religious celebrations.

“Yes,”  she smiled, leaning back. “A short vacation. Just the five of us. We’ll stay there for a few days, away from the city, away from the crowds.”

At first, I didn’t react much. I was a creature of habit, and the idea of missing out on the usual neighborhood festivities felt strange. It sounded nice, certainly, but I didn’t fully grasp the weight of the proposal. For me , it was just another trip. But as the days led up to our departure, a quiet anticipation began to bubble beneath my skin. I didn't know then that I was about to trade the familiar walls of my room for the infinite horizon of the Indian Ocean.

The Departure into the Blue

The day we left, the sky was still dark, mom woke me up earlier than the sun. “Wake up, we need to go now,” she said, her voice a gentle melody against the silence of the house as she pulled the curtains aside.

I groaned, the weight of sleep pulling at my eyelids, and buried my face into the pillow. “It’s too early… the sun isn't even awake yet.”

“We don’t want to get stuck in the holiday traffic,” she replied, her footsteps already retreating toward the kitchen where the smell of coffee was beginning to bloom.

Reluctantly, I dragged myself out of bed. The house felt electric that morning lively and full of a nervous, happy energy. My siblings still haven’t woken up from their sleep. And finally I woke them up to get ready and hurry up leave

By the time we packed the trunk and squeezed into our seats, the sky had started to bleed into a pale, dusty blue. The city of Bandung was still draped in silence, with only a few stray vehicles on the road. I leaned my head against the cold glass of the window, watching the streetlights pass by like golden beads on a string, each one pulling us further from our routine.

As we drove further toward the coast of Sukabumi, the urban landscape began to dissolve. Tall, grey buildings were replaced by humble houses with terracotta roofs, and soon, those too gave way to the majesty of West Java’s countryside. Endless green rice fields stretched out like emerald carpets, and the hills rose up to meet us, shrouded in morning mist. The air coming through the slightly cracked window felt fresher, cool, and untainted by exhaust. Somehow, as the elevation changed, I felt lighter too.

“Look at that,” my dad said, slowing the car down near a cliffside pass.

I followed his gaze. Below us, a valley was waking up, the sunlight just beginning to hit the tops of the palm trees. “It’s beautiful,” I said softly. At that moment, the skepticism I had felt about leaving home vanished, replaced by a surging tide of excitement.

The journey took several hours, weaving through winding roads and small villages, but the time didn’t feel like a burden. We spent the hours in a way we rarely did at home without the distraction of television or chores. We share stories with each other, and sing along to the latest pop songs playing on the car radio.

We all started singing, in slightly off key voices but in perfect harmony with happiness. I watched them all from the middle seat, realizing that this trip wasn't just a holiday family. I stopped checking my phone. The digital world felt flat and dull compared to the vivid green of the hills and the warmth of my parents’ laughter.

First Contact with the Infinite

When we finally descended the final hills and arrived in the coastal area of Sukabumi, the change was visceral. The air was no longer just "fresh", it was heavy with the tang of salt and the humidity of the tropics. I stepped out of the car at a small rest stop, and the wind hit me like an old friend.

And then, I saw it. The ocean.

It wasn’t just water, it was an expanse of liquid silver stretching toward an impossible horizon. The waves moved with a deliberate, slow grace, crashing against the dark rocks of the Ujung Genteng coastline. The sunlight danced on the surface, making it sparkle with a billion tiny diamonds.

“Wow…” I whispered, the word caught in my throat. I didn’t realize I had been holding my breath until that moment. The sheer scale of the sea made my worries feel like grains of sand.

“This is amazing,” I added, turning to my sister. She looked satisfied, like a girl who had successfully delivered a miracle.

Our hotel was a charming, weathered building situated right on the edge of the beach. It wasn't a five star luxury resort with gold plated faucets, but to me, it was paradise. It had wide wooden verandas and the smell of jasmine in the hallways. The moment we checked in, I grabbed the key and ran straight to our room, throwing open the balcony doors.

The ocean was right there. I could hear the roar of the surf, a deep, percussive sound that seemed to vibrate in my chest. I stood there for a long time, just staring at the white foam as it dissolved into the shore.

“I could stay here forever,” I said, not realizing I was speaking aloud.

My mom, who had followed me in to drop off the bags, laughed softly. “Let’s enjoy the three days first before you decide to become a beach hermit.”

That first afternoon was a blur of sensory delight. We didn't waste a single second. We swapped our travel clothes for shorts and t-shirts and headed straight for the water. The sand in Turtle Beach is unique coarser than the white powder of Bali, but warm and grounded. I could feel the heat of the sun baked earth under my soles, a grounding sensation that made me feel intensely alive.

I approached the water’s edge with a bit of trepidation. The Indian Ocean is known for its power. I waited for a wave to retreat, then stepped into the wet sand. The water was surprisingly cold, a sharp contrast to the humid air, but it was incredibly refreshing.

“Come on! Don't be a coward!” my lil brother shouted, already waist deep in the surf, dodging a breaking wave.

I laughed, shook off my hesitation, and dived in. We spent hours in that water. We played like children, splashing each other until our eyes stung from the salt and our skin turned pruned. We tried to build elaborate sandcastles, engineering moats and towers, only to watch them be reclaimed by the tide. Each time the water leveled our creations, we just laughed and started again. There was a profound lesson in that the beauty of the temporary.

As the sun began to dip on our first evening, I sat on the beach and just watched the very bright stars that night. In that simple, unadorned moment, everything felt right. There were no deadlines, no expectations, no social pressures. Just the family, the sand, and the sea.

The Thrill of the Waves

The second day brought a shift in energy. If the first day was about peace, the second was about adrenaline. After a breakfast of fried rice and fresh watermelon, my sister pointed toward a colorful speck on the water.

“Let’s try that,” she said.

I squinted against the glare and saw a bright yellow banana shaped boat being prepped by the local guides. “The Banana Boat?” I asked, my heart giving a small, nervous thud.

“Why not?” my sister challenged. “When was the last time we did something crazy together?”

My siblings were instantly on board, jumping up and down with excitement. I, however, looked at the waves which seemed significantly larger today and then at the flimsy looking inflatable boat. But the spirit of the holiday had taken hold of me.

“Okay. Let’s do it.”

A few minutes later, we were strapped into bright orange life jackets, looking like a row of oversized citrus fruits. The instructor gave us a quick briefing that did little to calm my nerves. “Hold the handles. If the boat flips, just let go and float. Don't fight the water.”

If the boat flips? I thought. He means when.

We climbed onto the rubber tube, sitting in a single file. I was in the middle, my hands gripped so tightly around the nylon handles that my knuckles turned white. The speedboat engine roared to life, and the rope between us went taut.

“Ready?” the instructor shouted over the engine.

“Ready!” my family screamed in unison.

The boat lurched forward. At first, it was a pleasant, fast glide. The wind was blowing very hard, and the spray of the sea cooled my face. I thought, This isn't so bad. This is actually quite nice.

Then, the driver of the speedboat looked back and grinned. He began to zigzag.

The banana boat started to bounce violently over the wake of the waves. We were no longer gliding, we were flying. Each time the boat hit the water, a loud smack echoed, and we would all jolt into the air.

“AAAAAA!” We weren't just screaming out of fear, it was a pure, cathartic release. My brother was yelling something incoherent, and my dad was laughing so hard he almost lost his grip.

“Faster!” my lil brother yelled, her voice lost in the wind.

The driver obliged. He took us further out, where the swells were higher. The world became a blur of blue water and white foam. My heart was racing at a thousand miles an hour. It was the most terrifying and exhilarating thing I had ever done.

Suddenly, the speedboat made a sharp, 180 degree turn. Centrifugal force took over. I felt the banana boat tilt… 45 degrees… 60 degrees…

“Hold on!!”

Splash!

In an instant, the world turned upside down. I hit the water and submerged into a quiet, bubbly blue world. For a few seconds, the chaos of the surface vanished. Then, the buoyancy of the life jacket kicked in, and I popped back up like a cork.

I wiped the water from my eyes and saw my family scattered around the floating yellow boat, all of us bobbing in the deep water. There was a moment of silence, and then, as if on cue, we all erupted into hysterical laughter.

“Did you see Mom’s face?!” my brother gasped, spitting out seawater.

“I thought I was going to fly to Australia!” my dad joked.

We climbed back on, exhausted but buzzing with energy. By the time we walked back to the shore, my muscles were aching, but my spirit felt lighter than air.

That evening, the atmosphere shifted back to a quiet reverence. We found a spot on the rocks to watch the sunset. In Turtle Beach, the sunsets are legendary. The sky didn't just change color, it performed an epic poem. It shifted from a brilliant gold to a fiery orange, then softened into hues of rose, lavender, and finally a deep, bruised purple.

“It’s beautiful,” my mom said, her voice barely a whisper, as if she didn't want to disturb the horizon.

I sat there, the cooling sand between my toes, watching the sun disappear behind the edge of the world. There was a profound silence between us not the awkward silence of people with nothing to say, but the rich silence of people who have shared something meaningful.

“I don't want to go home,” I said. The words felt heavy because they were so true.

My sister looked at me and smiled, a bit sadly. “I know. But the reason this feels so good is because it’s a break from the world. We carry this feeling back with us.”

“I’d still rather stay,” I muttered, and we all laughed.

The Weight of the Final Morning

On the third day, the air felt different. It was the day of departure, and a sense of melancholy had begun to settle over me. I woke up at dawn, even before my mother this time. I walked out onto the balcony in my pajamas, the morning air chilly against my skin.

The ocean was calm, almost glass like, reflecting the grey pink light of the early sun. I watched a lone fisherman in a small jukung boat far out in the distance. He looked so peaceful, a tiny dot in a vast universe. I tried to memorize everything the way the salt felt in the humidity, the specific rhythm of the tide, the way the hotel’s wooden floorboards creaked.

I wanted to bottle this feeling and take it back to the noisy, crowded streets of the city. I wanted to keep the peace of Sukabumi in my pocket for the days when life felt too loud.

“I wish we could stay longer,” I whispered to the waves.

The process of packing was somber. We didn't argue over snacks this time. We moved quietly, folding our damp towels and sandy clothes. When we finally checked out and walked to the car, I felt a physical heaviness in my chest a longing for a place that I had only known for seventy two hours.

As my dad started the engine, I looked back at the hotel, then at the path leading to the beach.

“Ready to go?” my mom asked, sensing my mood.

“No,” I said honestly. “But I guess we have to.”

As we drove away, winding back up the hills, I kept my eyes fixed on the rearview mirror. I watched the blue line of the ocean grow thinner and thinner until it was nothing more than a memory.

“Goodbye,” I said softly under my breath.

Reflection

Looking back on those three days, I realize they were a turning point for me. Life moves so fast college, work, expectations, the constant noise of the digital age. We often forget that we are part of a larger, natural world. Those three days by the sea taught me that happiness isn't a destination or a grand achievement.

It was found in the sting of salt in my eyes. It was in the ridiculous scream of a banana boat ride. It was in the quiet orange glow of a Turtle Beach sunset and the simple warmth of a family meal without the interruption of a ringing phone.

Even now, years later, when I feel stressed or overwhelmed, I close my eyes and I go back there. I hear the waves. I feel the breeze. I am reminded that no matter how chaotic life becomes, the sea is still there, rhythmic and eternal.

The three days I never wanted to leave gave me something that stayed with me forever: the realization that the most precious things in life aren't things at all they are the moments of togetherness that we hold onto, long after the sand has been washed from our shoes.

And if I could go back to that balcony, feeling that breeze for the first time again, I wouldn't change a single thing. Except, perhaps, I would find a way to stay just a little bit longer.